


lather, rinse, repeat

by lyricalprose (fairylights)



Series: 2013 Fic Advent Calendar [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 2013 Fic Advent Calendar, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylights/pseuds/lyricalprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So it’s not so much the hair, specifically, as it is generally being clean?” The Doctor tilts his head to one side in an expression of deep, thoughtful consideration – as if this is some esoteric logical conundrum, and not a basic hygienic concern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lather, rinse, repeat

**Author's Note:**

> claravoyant asked “Doctor/Rose, hair care products.”
> 
> Fill #1 for my 2013 fic advent calendar.

“Right now,” Rose announces solemnly, from where she’s sprawled on the ground, “there is nothing I want more in the _universe_ than to be able to wash my hair.”  
  
The Doctor’s head pops up next to her, and she cranes her neck to the right in order to catch a glimpse of his quizzical expression. “Your hair?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Rose replies, with relish.  
  
The thing about traveling with the Doctor is that a lot of the time, it’s _brilliant._  
  
A lot of the time, it really is all stars and supernovas. It’s finding all the wonders the universe has to offer, being amazed by all the fantastic things there are to see and do. It’s sitting next to the Doctor, sprawled on top of his coat on the apple grass, or it’s sprinting across lush green moors, the wind whipping through her hair and their laughter dancing in the breeze.  
  
But some of the time, it’s blood and dirt and sweat and screaming. It’s seeing things that give you nightmares for weeks afterwards, that make Rose want nothing more than to hear the sound of her mother’s voice, or to have a cup of tea and a chat with the Doctor in a warm, well-lighted place.  
  
And then, other times, it’s like… _this._ It’s being picked up for trespassing in the forest they’d landed in, spending three days in a dusty jail cell because the sonic screwdriver _doesn’t do wood_ , and then traipsing _back_ through the forest for days on end, because there’s no such thing as rapid transit on this planet and the TARDIS is two days’ hike from the nearest town.  
  
The Doctor pushes himself up on one elbow, hovering over Rose’s right side. “You _just_ washed your hair, not three hours ago. In that stream we found, after the…thing. The thing with the mud.”  
  
Rose wrinkles her nose, remembering the foul-smelling red mud that she can still feel crusted under her fingernails and wedged between her toes. “It’s not the same,” she sighs. “River water can’t much compare to shampoo and a nice, hot shower.”  
  
“So it’s not so much the hair, specifically, as it is generally being clean?” The Doctor tilts his head to one side in an expression of deep, thoughtful consideration – as if this is some esoteric logical conundrum, and not a basic hygienic concern. “Does your _hair_ being clean have any particular significance? Is it that–”  
  
Rose cuts him off before he can finish. “It’s that I’m tired, and dirty, and hungry. It’s that I smell like I rolled around in a skip and probably look it too, and that this trip’s been thrilling in all the _wrong_ ways, and that right now I really just want to be _home._ ”  
  
The Doctor rolls away from her, onto his back, and for a few moments neither of them say anything. All Rose can hear is the distant sound of rushing water, somewhere off in the distance, and the hushed sound of her own breathing. Then the Doctor says, in an uncharacteristically small voice, “I can take you back to your mum’s, once we get back to the TARDIS.”  
  
She sits bolt upright and stares down at him, incredulous. “What? Why?”  
  
Rose watches as his face slides from stony, pretended indifference to genuine confusion. “You just said – you said you wanted–”  
  
“That’s not _home_ , you nutter,” Rose chides him, fondly. “Hasn’t been for a while.”  
  
“Oh.” The look of confusion on the Doctor’s face morphs into a smile, bright and wide and brilliant, even in the dim light of the forest at sundown. “ _Oh._ ”  
  
Rose grins back, and for a moment there’s nothing in the world but _that_ – nothing at all except him and her and the space between their smiles.  
  
Then the Doctor breaks the moment, tearing his eyes from hers to look up and down her body, appraisingly. “By the way,” he says teasingly, “you most certainly do _not_ look like you’ve rolled around in a skip.”  
  
She’s about to say _thanks_ when his smile turns mischievous and he drawls, “Now, the _smell_ , on the other hand–”  
  
Rose punches him in the arm, and the Doctor’s noise of mock pain turns to giggles in a matter of seconds. Then, smell or no smell, he throws an arm around her, pulling them closer together where they’re sprawled on the forest floor.  
  
“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, into her matted hair. “Tomorrow, we’ll be home.”


End file.
